Weather the Storm
by Ro-RoWeasley
Summary: When your world shatters around you inner demons come out to play. It's up to you to decide whether you let them consume you, or you fight and conquer. TV verse oneshot.


_A/N: This pretty much reflects my emotions from over the last couple of months so it's a little short and angsty, but some things you just have to get out of your system. This academic year has been difficult in so many ways and writing has helped to keep me sane, as always. But all my exams are over and done with now, it's just the final straight of finishing lingering assignments before I can enjoy the summer. It can't come quick enough._

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

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**WEATHER THE STORM**

The question is asked again.

"_**Are you ready?"**_

But is lost upon him and bright blue irises, trapped within puffy eyes, remain fixed upon the vinyl floor. Pale fingers curl into the flesh of palms that sit clenched in his lap, white knuckles showing with the intensity of the squeeze. Denim limbs tremble as sneaker-clad feet persistently tap in a display of anxiety, vibrations spreading through his body and transferring to the padded seat from which he can't bring himself to leave.

But he has to. The situation demands it, demands that he move and yet his mind forbids him to stand. Muscles react subconsciously, rebelliously, and he leans forward, elbows resting on thighs. He still hasn't stood upright, but for now he _has_ moved. His jittery legs are silenced as hands scour over his face. Fingernails scrape harshly over tear-stained cheeks as if he hopes this will scratch away the pain, the torment.

He is wrong.

And he knows it too. The fingernails progress into his already tousled blonde hair, digging into his scalp and he grits his teeth to withhold a scream. His chest rises and falls as he breathes heavily, robbing oxygen from the filtered air before exhaling loudly. For such a natural, harmless process it pains him, poisons him as it reminds him of just how easy it is. Breathing. In, out. In, out. A stark contrast to the mechanical hiss of the life support machine he knows he will see.

Eighteen-year-old hands meet at the back of his head and fingers interlink, gripping each other almost painfully as if to a lifeline. The action dips his head so he now stares between his legs as if to ward away nausea, hands on top of his head.

Tears.

Salty drops descend and scatter themselves before him, showing a theatrical adaptation of his thoughts. Breaths hitch in his throat and pathetic sobs escape his lips; uncontrollable, unstoppable.

The question, the moving, the tears. This cycle had occurred six times since he was brought here. And now it commences again.

He can't do it. He can't do it.  
He's still not ready.

A comforting arm places itself around his shoulders from the right and pulls him. He moves again, this time to mould into the warm embrace of his eldest brother. Scott rubs soothing circles across his back while muttering comforting words; it helps to stabilise his breathing but does nothing to calm him.

His head shakes as hot tears keep on coming and Scott's hold upon him tightens. He feels like a small child again, being comforted after a nightmare. But that is exactly what this feels like, only the worst kind of nightmare imaginable. So vivid in sight, in smell, in sound, that until he wakes up it _is_ real.

But Alan is already awake and that reality crashes over him in a wave of despair. Thoughts and fears fly round and round inside of his brain, creating a constant mental buzz. He can't think straight, but he knows he can't move as that makes it final.

He doesn't know how long he has been there, sat in that chair in the ICU waiting room. His brothers have been inside, his dad and his grandma. All spending however long they need inside that room before having the courage to emerge and let the next person in.

And now Grandma has appeared so the only one left is him, which means now is his time. It's his turn to…

He swallows.  
No. He doesn't want to say goodbye. It's not fair, he's not ready.

His brothers know this; Scott, Virgil and John. Scott still holds him in an embrace, his face resting on Alan's hair. Virgil offers support from his left, combing a hand methodically through his hair in an attempt to calm him, something that always worked for him as a child. John crouches down in front of them, his hands gently stroking Alan's knees. They know how hard this is for him.

He is losing his best friend. He cannot cope, the words are incomprehensible to him and yet he knows they are true, no matter how hard he tries to deny it.

Their missing brother lies in that room beyond the door, two months into a coma that doctors say he will never awaken from, his injuries too severe. Gordon Tracy is hanging on the edge of the abyss of endless sleep, and just one more step is left before he falls, never to be rescued.

Such thoughts leave him to drown in his current state, the world nothing but a black cloud as he sits numbly between bodies of warmth.

He can't bring himself to go inside.

But through the weight of the pressing storm his brain shouts at him. Yells that everyone around him has it all wrong. And at that moment he listens and he understands. The longer he waits outside here means the longer his brother is still alive, fighting to come back to them. He is not only upset because of the impending loss, no he is also angry that everyone else seems to have given up.

Fire suddenly ignites within him. Gordon never gave up on anything, and Alan in turn refuses to give up on him.

A new light shines in his eyes as he realises that he doesn't have to say goodbye, not yet. The others might think he is saying his last words but Alan would know different. He was going to go into that hospital room and demand that his brother come back to them. He was not going to lose him today.

And just like that the tears stop, the trembles that wracked his frame fade and he sits himself up. He is still surrounded by his brothers but as Scott sends him a questioning look Alan gives them a meaningful nod before steadily rising to his feet. They may think that they have calmed him, but it wasn't just their comfort that gave Alan the strength. He is the only one to see past the pain and the grief, and to have the courage not to lose hope.

He takes deep breaths through his nose as he walks with slow, meaningful steps towards the door. Bracing his hands in position to push it open he leans against it, forehead resting on the glass of the window as he uses the pause to summon every last ounce of strength, will and hope.

It is time to face the arena.


End file.
